The American Adventures of an English Actor • Part III

In an unpublished essay, Leslie Howard recounts his first journey across the Atlantic and his first impressions of America—its people, hotels, food, theatre, Prohibition and drinking clubs—along with New York's Times Square, the El-Train and its never-ceasing noise.

[Spelling and punctuation are Mr. Howard's]

Part 3:

The first thing that occurred to me as I attended rehearsal rather the worse for wear the following morning—or to be precise the same morning—was that the stage and the acting profession generally are the same the world over. I had had visions of grim American efficiency in contrast to the easy-going ways of London. I need not have worried. American efficiency may control the box-office but it has scarcely gained admittance at the Stage Door.

By this I do not intend any disrespect to American efficiency or to dramatic art. It is merely my way of expressing a pious hope that rule-of-thumb methods may be, as far as possible, excluded from the already most commercialised of the four arts.

Nobody quite knew where this rehearsal was to take place, who was to direct it or who was to play an important part as yet unfilled. In addition, though the play was to be presented to the public a fortnight hence, another important character had only just sailed from England and could not be with us for a week or so. Just like old times. I felt at home at once.

While waiting about, one of the company—a delightful old actor—entertained me with a description of every part he had played during the last thirty years. He added that he was only playing his present small part as a special favour to the management who required his peculiar gifts in a part which, though only of eight lines, was one of the most difficult in the piece.

Identical conversations take place daily in London. One actor greets another in the Green Room Club and says: 'By the way, old boy, Vedrenne wants me in that new piece. Not much of a part—oughtn't to do it, but one must oblige him—nearly went down on his knees to one. After all one's the only fellow in town that'd be just right in that part. And he's paying one's usual sixty quid, so one can try it till something better turns up.'

To find the same old things happening across the Atlantic was, therefore, highly gratifying—a sort of touchstone in a strange world.

After some delay, it was announced that the rehearsal would take place in the smoking room, the stage being occupied. (In London in similar circumstances one always repairs to the Stalls Bar.) There we commenced work under the auspices of the stage-manager. However, as no self-respecting actor or actress would permit themselves to be directed by a stage-manager nothing very exciting happened—barring the mumbling through of our respective parts—until the arrival of the actor-manager just about lunch-time. As the poor man was himself acting nightly in Philadelphia and had to catch the three o'clock train to that city only a very short rehearsal was possible under his guidance and that at the heroic sacrifice of lunch on the part of the company. The actor-manager was undoubtedly an inspired director whose presence would have been invaluable under normal conditions but his time was so short that this rehearsal did not effect any lasting results. We flitted violently from scene to scene in a hectic and feverish manner, the actor-manager, with one eye on his watch, dashing forward now and then to enact personally a passage which seemed beyond the power of one or another of the players. I had only received my part that morning and at this stage I wasn't at all sure whether it was supposed to be a funny one (reading it gave me no clue either way), so I tried being comic and tragic by turns, the latter producing quite a lot of mirth from the company and a sad smile from the actor-manager. Suddenly, however, he shot through the door and the rehearsal was over.

Having nothing to do for the rest of the day I started on a tour of my clubs. On my arrival in New York a number of kind friends had sent me cards of membership for their respective clubs which were, however, valid for two weeks only. Today, therefore, I was a proud member of at least nine different clubs. A fortnight later I was a member of none at all. It is rather an embarrassing system but is a good example of that innate hospitality which the best Americans possess. It would be rather a good plan, I think, to have a sort of Club Clearing House by which anyone possessing two-weeks cards for, say, nine clubs could have them converted for use at one club for eighteen weeks. One could, of course, have used the nine cards consecutively—but only in the case of someone with a first class memory. Personally I should find it impossible to remember which club I was using in a particular fortnight so perhaps it was just as well they were all for the same period. It gave considerable variety—and much entertainment—in seeing how many clubs I could actually visit in one evening. The basic requirement was a strong head and a good sense of geography.

It was during my peregrinations round the clubs that I discovered the Elevated Railway. This was a most fearsome contraption and, for me, hazardous means of travel about which I had not been warned. I first encountered it on 6th Avenue—an immense railway track elevated on girders over the roadway and running in both directions as far as the eye could see. At intervals large railway stations were suspended in mid-air between the houses. When trains passed over it, which they did about once a minute, the whole structure shook violently and the noise was indescribable. Foolishly I decided to try it—but unfortunately entered it on the wrong track and, being unmechanically-minded, could not find my way out of it until it terminated in Harlem—where sadly none of my club-cards were valid.

In future I stuck to taxis until I had acquired the kind of second, armoured skin and necessary bravado with which all New Yorkers are obviously born. I even went so far as to purchase my first American car, a Dort, on the instalment plan...But that's another story.

Trivial Fond Records, pgs. 27-30

Subscribe to Leslie Howard by Email • And don't forget to respond to the verification email!